


Jaime Goldenhands

by TeamGwenee



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Modern AU, hairdresser au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:42:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23041954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeamGwenee/pseuds/TeamGwenee
Summary: When Brienne finds herself stuck with an atrocious haircut, she expects Jaime; God of all Jackasses, to make fun. Not to offer to fix it.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 22
Kudos: 184





	Jaime Goldenhands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ikkiM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikkiM/gifts).



Brienne had chosen to wear a jacket with a hood for this specific reason. It was summer, a day her father and Uncle Endrew would dub ‘a real scorcher’ as they cracked open two cans of chilled beer.

She lurked outside the building, tugging down her hood and staring resolutely at the floor. Beauty students began to file out, nattering and texting and hauling laptops and bulky portfolios. Brienne prayed that Sansa would come out quickly, but the stream of students thinned to a trickle, just a handful of stragglers dribbling out. And there, sauntering along, a golden god in the sun, was Jaime Lannister.

Fuck.

“Tarth!” he called, “Tarth!”

Brienne pretended not to have heard, not even looking up until he was a handspan away from her and waving his hand in her face. He ducked and peeked beneath her hood.

“Couldn’t hear me under there?” he jibed, “What are you hiding?”

Jaime Lannister had joined Sansa’s beauty course at the beginning of term, shoving a middle finger in the face of his father and his business empire, choosing the one career that would torment his traditional sire more than any other. At the age of thirty, he was one of three ‘mature students’, and never had that phrase been more misplaced. He had the humour of an eleven year old and the temperment of a toddler. Part and parcel of being a spoiled rich boy.

He was depressingly skilled, according to Sansa, with deft and skilled hands. Not that it truly mattered. Brienne suspected that women would cue up to pay him to butcher their hair, if it meant having those fingers running over their head. Sansa’s classmates called him a ‘dreamboat’ and a ‘hunk’ and the ‘Warrior made flesh’.

Brienne disagreed. Brienne called him a prat. 

“No point in trying to hide Tarth,” he informed her, “I caught a peak of Stark’s portfolio. She’s inside now, getting an ear wigging from Syrio. Come on, let’s see the damage.”

Brienne ripped off the hood and stared at Jaime defiantly. He let out a low whistle.

“Oh Tarth, what did she do to you?”

“She tried her best,” Brienne said defensively. “She just had trouble getting the method right.”

“Did her method include a bowl and kitchen scissors?” he asked scornfully. “My old housekeeper used to do a better job than that.”

If Brienne had hoped that giving in and showing Jaime her hair would make him back off, she was sorely disappointed. He reached out and placed both hands on the side of her head, tilting her head left and right, inspecting it from every angle, transfixed with horror. Brienne shifted uneasily, eyes flickering to his feet as they stood nearly nose to nose.

He stepped back and nodded decisively. 

“Come on,” he instructed her, making his way to her car.

“What?” Brienne stuttered, rooted to one place. “Where?”

Jaime turned and raised an eyebrow, still walking with his hands in his pockets.

“Back to mine. I’m going to sort out your hair.”

“But Sansa wanted me to give her a lift?” Brienne pointed out.

“And you probably wanted Sansa  _ not  _ to make you look like a nine year old on his first day of school. Clearly we can’t always get what we want,” Jaime shot back. “Come along Tarth."

#

Brienne leaned backwards over Jaime’s bath tub, perched on a chair Jaime had dragged from the kitchen. He had strewn the floor with old newspaper and draped a towel across Brienne’s shoulders with a flourish, before proceeding with washing her hair. 

Jaime was taking his time, burying his fingers into her wet locks and firmly rubbing circles into her scalp. He was oddly silent, for him, speaking only to instruct her to move her head up or down, lean forward or back. The soapy water was warm, and Jaime’s fingers were gentle, yet strong as he massaged the shampoo into her hair. It should have been relaxing, but it was all that Brienne could do not to wring her hands. She told herself that she was just nervous about what happened the last time she had let a beauty student touch her head.

He leaned forward, bringing his mouth level to her ear.

“Close your eyes,” he ordered.

Brienne shut her eyes as Jaime turned on the shower head. The strong jet of warm water hit her scalp and trickled down the back of her neck. Jaime directed the shower head with one hand and with the other, ran his fingers through her hair in long strokes. Brienne squeezed her eyes shut and fought against the tide of sensations running over her. The hot water and the hands,  _ ye _ gods Jaime’s hands. 

Finally, Jaime turned off the shower head and gathered her drenched hair in his hand, squeezing out the hot water into the tub. 

“Sit up,” he said, giving her a brisk tap on the shoulder.

Brienne straightened her back and blinked as the bathroom light hit her eyes. She watched in the mirror as Jaime fetched a comb and resumed his place behind her. She gave a small swallow as he began to comb out the knots and snarls. Her damp hair fell in strands around her shoulder, forming a silky curtain as Jaime methodically combed through, using his other hand to tilt and tip her head as required. 

“Why,” she choked, suddenly hoarse, “Why did you want to become a hairdresser?”

Jaime did not look up from his work, but he quirked an eyebrow.

“Why the sudden interest?” he asked.

“We might as well talk about something,” Brienne responded. Or anything, anything at all. Just something to take her mind off the press of his fingers against her head. 

“And I thought you would be grateful for my silence.” His eyes flickered up to the mirror and he smiled impishly. “My father thought it was because it was the career choice that would send him to the earliest grave.”

“And it wasn’t?” Brienned asked.

“No,” Jaime said calmly. “It wasn’t.” He put down the comb and smoothed her hair down with his fingers. “I hated my job. Soulless, dishonourable. My father sees the world in numbers and its people as commodities. I wanted to do something that just made people  _ feel _ good, confident.” He looked at her steadfastly in the mirror, before turning his gaze back to her hair.

Brienne clenched her jaw and nodded.

Jaime picked up his scissors and comb and methodically went about trimming her butchered locks. In the mirror Brienne could see the line on his forehead as he frowned in concentration, measuring every snip and cut. He pursed his lips and hummed from his throat as tendrils of hair dropped onto the floor. Jaime smoothly put down his comb and brushed a lock off Brienne’s shoulder, before swiftly resuming his snipping.

“Look down,” he instructed, tipping her head forward. 

Brienne couldn’t see him in the mirror, but she could hear the measured snip of the scissors slicing through her hair, and feel the warm air on the back of her neck as Jaime lightly breathed. She could feel the steadiness of his fingers, the confidence in his every cut. More and more hair was falling and she knew the end result was going to be very short, but she felt strangely calm as the locks of yellow hair gathered on the newspaper. She was safe in his hands.

Brienne shifted slightly in her seat.

“Sit still,” he chided gently, giving her hair a playful yank with his comb.

Brienne sneaked a peak and caught Jaime’s gaze in the mirror, scissors hovering as he watched her. She dropped her gaze and looked at her lap.

Jaime placed down the scissors and picked up his hair dryer and brush. Brienne could not help a sigh of relief as he turned it on and directed the gust of hot air towards her head, brushing as he dried. The loud whir and blow of the dryer covered up the sound of her own heartbeat pounding in her ears.

“All done!” he announced, leaving Brienne with an overwhelming feeling of gratitude and disappointment, and a curious empty ache within her belly. 

“Take a look then,” Jaime prodded.

It  _ was  _ very short, and boyish, yet beneath it her face looked strangely feminine. It was parted to one side, and Jaime combed back the stray locks flopping over her forehead, putting her wide blue eyes into prominence. Had her eyes always been so blue? 

“Good?” Jaime asked.

Brienne nodded and offered a small, sincere smile. “Good,” she confirmed. 

Jaime made her pose so he could take some photos for his portfolio, directing her to turn this way and that. Brienne obliged, it was the least she could, even if she wished for nothing more to flee and recover her frayed nerves.

She made her escape as Jaime set about sweeping up her shorn locks, snatching up her jacket as she made to step away into the mild summer evening.

“Brienne!” Jaime called.

Brienne paused with a start, hand lingering over the door knob. She turned back to face him. Jaime smiled knowingly, a predatory glint in his sharp green eyes. He was twirling his comb between his fingers. 

“Yes?” she croaked.

“Just so you know, next time you want to get me alone, you don’t need to make poor Sansa butcher your hair first as a pretext.” He smirked. “Asking me out for a drink would do just as well.”

Brienne blushed and wrenched open the door. Cheeks flaming, she fled from the building. It was only as she was halfway to her car, the memory of Jaime’s fingers still in her hair, that she realised she hadn’t turned Jaime down on his offer. 


End file.
